Dean Winchester, Poet

I'm Dean Winchester, Aquarius. I like sunsets, long walks on the beach, and poetry.

[dw-poet]

the heroes’ journey

I dreamed…

I dreamed I danced,

dressed in white

my shoes tapping. 

The music flowed, and just for a moment

I was free.

Later, before the fight,

I told Sam

we go out there, and we kick some ass

but neither of us believed it.

Everything we’ve had, our whole lives

was God-given.

Can we really beat him?

Dream on.

[dw-poet]

the trap

Dark, cold, 

and empty. 

The forest has a lack of monsters, or angels. 

I can't lose him again

Not like this, with those things we said, 

what if he's dead and I'm not and he never knows how sorry I am? 

There's not enough time, and too much forest.

I walk on, each step less sure, 

a dread creeping up my limbs like molten lead.

It pulls me down to my knees,

the regret, the grief builds;

It swallows me down like a tidal wave and I pray with everything I have

I hope you can hear me

I hope you can hear me...

“Dean?”

He’s here!

Suddenly, I’m lighter than air

A breeze could carry me away 

But first, steeling my resolve, 

I try to tell him again, 

the words on the tip of my tongue.

"You don't have to say it." 

But I do.

There are so many words to say

I'll spend the rest of my life saying them to him, 

I swear. 

We step towards the portal.

[dw-poet]

our father, who aren’t in heaven

The doorway to purgatory stands there. 

We both stare at it, 

the space between us 

awkward as hell. 

don't get me wrong, I'm glad he's back

but he's cold as ice

and I don't want to go back there,

not with him. 

Rowena says "fix it!" 

as if it were that easy

to get over years 

of betrayal

of lies

of worry

of him doing something for me, to protect me or spare me

without asking me if I wanted to be protected or spared. 

Making bad decisions, even if they were for good reasons;

a fucking headstrong angel and his dumb ideas. 

I'm the one who taught him about free will 

and it fucked him up beyond repair. 

We sigh, shake our heads

as we tiptoe around each other in a slow dance

and step towards the portal.

[dw-poet]

last call

Two boys meet on a hunt,

and each time their paths cross again and again

they drink,

they share women,

they take comfort in one another.

One day, they say

we’ll get away from this.

Open our own bar,

live the dream!

But in Arizona, 

two boys witness the horrors of what humans can do.

Their paths diverge,

and they no longer speak of dreams

or freedom

or each other.

Until tonight.

Turns out this grown-up world ain’t a place

for starry-eyed boys and their dreams.

As I stand over his body, 

bloody cue in my hand

I wonder

how everything I touch

turns to ash.

[dw-poet]

golden time

Eileen walks in, her eyes bright.

Well, I'm glad Sam got a win.

 All I got was a few words, 

a gruff dismissal like a knife in the gut. 

He's alive. Good to know, I guess. 

 Sam says he needs his brother, 

but he doesn't. 

Not anymore. 

He's a leader, a true man of letters. 

Whatever the witch saw in him has surfaced 

and he's glowing with purpose. 

God better watch out. 

 Don't think that it could all crumble for him at any moment. 

Don't think that He's just fucking with Sam as much as the rest of us.

Don't think that every single good thing in this world is fleeting, 

and gone on the whim of a short asshole with a beard and a typewriter.

[dw-poet]

proverbs 17:3

A return to the essentials

That’s all that I need 

A case, Baby, 

my brother and meat.

Feed the meat man.

 They think I can’t take the heat

Get out the kitchen

There’s also ghosts out on the street 

Who gives a shit if ghost peppers

Ain’t my beef?

 Tried and tested, on the case

Got a monster, got some victims, got IDs, the same old face 

Ain’t nothin changed 

Just a few grey hairs

A few extra lines to mark the years.

 So what if it’s easy?

We’re good at what we do

Brother turns on brother:

That ain’t nothing new 

And maybe we can’t save them all

But maybe we ain’t through.

 Not a face I needed to see

Lilith doing His dirty deeds

Past sins

Coming back to haunt our sleep

The greatest hits played on repeat.

 But now the scene no longer fits

The way He writes us: Total shit

He thinks we’re still

Those wayward Kansas boys

Been years since I’ve been on that script. 

 Sam can’t shoulder all the burden

When half of it is on my ass

I can still re-write the ending 

Not just repeat scenes from the past 

To break the cycle I just need—.

[dw-poet]

atomic monsters

The hunt goes on

and we work

to keep Sam's mind busy

and away from whatever darkness that's chasing him, 

resolutely ignoring the people-shaped holes, 

dark rooms, 

echoing halls.

Just

empty.

I give brave words to Sam—he needs them

but no one's coming back this time.

So I drink

and break

alone.

[dw-poet]

the rupture

It’s over.

All of it.

Ghostpocalypse—

lamest apocalypse ever.

It’s done.

And what do we have left?

Not Rowena, not Ketch

not Cas.

I’ve always trusted him

given him the benefit of the doubt.

He hasn’t seen how I still look at him

and he wonders why I can’t bear

 to listen to what he has to say.

The pieces of my heart are adrift

and his words only make them spin

 off into the dark—

then

he’s gone.

Well 

fuck him.

He wants to walk out on his family, 

on his home?

Fine.

It doesn’t matter

none of this is real

just Chuck's sick game.

except…

Sam walks into the library

slumped with sadness

weighed down by loss.

Where’s Cas? he asks.

Gone.

Gone where?

I look up at him

and crumble.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It feels

real.

[dw-poet]

raising hell

Fury clamours in my veins

blood boiling with the unfairness of it all

and he comes in here

trying to

apologize?

I can’t

can’t even let any of it out

or I’ll go crazy

How can he?

"You asked what was real?"

I turn to look

He's about to boil over

and I hope he does—

I could use a good fight.

"We are."

He's wrong.

Why can’t he see?

Every single thing we’ve done

everything we’ve seen

fought through

felt

has been part of Chuck’s grand bullshit

made up

false

none of it is real

not even

turning away from heaven

dying words said in a barn

giving up an army 

for one 

guy— 

lies.

I turn to look

at the angel

spare him half a glance

then run.

[dw-poet]

back and to the future

One foot in front of the other

keep the pain down

the sadness at bay

if I start screaming 

I may never

stop

The thing wearing his body turns my stomach

“Who was he?” it asks

like it even gives a shit

“Our kid,” I say

like I hadn't tried to lock him away in a box

or kill him at God's orders. 

What kind of a father am I?

The Angel is simmering

moments from breaking

the stoicism of ages barely held together

with string and a few bits of tape

I watch the strain in him as I approach

as I ask, “You okay?”

He says, “Yes—” meaning no

and as I see the splintering of his resolve

a gap in the facade

I turn away

before I splinter

myself.

What kind of a friend am I?

I patch Sam up

grief etched into his forehead

I’ve always held him together

or died trying

I can’t stop now

“Knock knock,” I say

then hurt him 

as I have before

as I will do again

for this madness we call family.

What kind of a brother am I?

I wonder about God—

Chuck, 

bastard that he is

and the lie that is free will

hating him and

myself

for believing it. 

What kind of a man am I?

[dw-poet]

Moriah

We stood among graves.

I saw him, a father defending his son

and Him, a father toying with his children

I saw as he knelt in the dirt

Mother watching over

I saw, as I pointed the gun

at a child

a monster

a corrupted innocent

I saw in his eyes

galaxies, born and destroyed

and a sunny day by a fishing stream

a carefree smile in the driver's seat

I saw the family

I have already mourned

over and over

No. I chose not to lose it again.

I chose

to live

to find another way—

but the creator ripped out the page